A/N: So I've decided that instead of posting a follow up to the first part I'd just add another chapter. These are meant to be a bunch of oneshots, and I don't know how often I'll update them. But whenever I have something that goes along with this story line I'll be sure to post it here. :)

Please let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I do not own DC Comics.

No matter how fast he ran, no matter how far, Tim knew that they were going to reach him.

The hands grabbed at his cape, clenching their broken fingers around his arms and legs. He stumbled and gritted his teeth, adrenaline flowing like a pipeline through his veins. Their angry calls filled his ears; they were angry because he had stopped their plans, these criminals. As a hero he had jailed them, sent them to the mercy of the courts, and had continued on with his life while they rotted away in prison cells. Not once had Tim considered the consequences of his actions and now he was being threatened by all the horror he'd fought against.

Faster he ran and heard the ripping of his cape as it was torn from his costume. The hands pulled and pulled, tearing the material off of him; his pants, boots, and shirt. They grabbed at his mask and yanked it off, and suddenly he was not Robin, nor was he Red Robin. He was Tim running into a familiar house and through familiar halls to get to a familiar person. But deep down he knew that once he made it to the oh-so-recognizable room that the sight before him wouldn't be.

He would be too late to stop it.

And yet he kept going, convinced that he was going to make it, that he could stop this from happening. Tim believed it as he burst through the door, believed it even when the blood on the floor caused him to slip, even when he fell onto his hands and knees and they were covered in the slick red substance. He kept hoping, kept having faith in the idea that if he stretched out his arm, if he could rip the weapon out, he'd save what he couldn't before.

He believed it until he set his eyes on his father's face.

Those blank eyes, the motionless body, told him all that he needed to know; it was too late. Hopeless.

The floor fell open under him and Tim plunged, slamming into water so cold that it seemed to freeze him on impact. All the bones in his body felt as if they had cracked, and his lungs filled with the ice that made him sink further. Gasping and choking, the current only dragged him under, not muffling the sounds of yelling criminals and his father's voice. The darkness came, forcing him into the void of nothingness.

His yell was what jolted him awake and he would have shot straight up in bed, but he couldn't move. He was too weak, and the panic made him feel as if motion was completely impossible. Tim's heart was hammering hard in his chest, his breath erratic. Sweat clung to him, to his face and body, making his T shirt stick to him and giving Tim the impression that he was suffocating. As much as he could he curled up, hands grasping at his chest as he brought his head towards his knees.

And then he was being lifted and held in a pair of strong arms and his mind immediately thought of Bruce, that it was his mentor and father figure coming to save him again. But then he inhaled the scent of cigarette smoke, and heard the voice of someone that was definitely not Bruce. "Tim. Tim relax. You're alright."

But he wasn't alright. Tim was sure that Jason knew that, but that was how the man was. He'd always tried to say something that wasn't entirely true in hopes that it would still act as a calming effect. Much to Tim's surprise it started to work; clinging to Jason's shirt also helped as he forced himself to breathe. Jason rubbed his back, a little awkwardly, but the longer that he did the easier it seemed to become. He said, "You're not dying, trust me. I would know."

The attempt at humor didn't do much. Tim didn't really know he was talking when he said, "I can't move."

"Yes you can," Jason replied, and when the teen looked up at him he was met with his older brother's look of don't-be-an-idiot. "You're just panicking."

Tim knew he was right. If he had the strength to move he would have pushed Jason away, but there was no getting out of his grasp unless the older man released him. Jason instructed him, "Reach your arm out."

Tentatively, Tim stretched, his arm extending as if he were trying to reach for the door on the other side of the room. His arm shook with weakness, but he was able to wiggle his fingers and clench his hand into a fist. Seeing that he could do so made him relax and he brought his arm into his lap. The teen took a shaky breath, aware that his voice was trembling as much as his body. "I thought you left."

That was the impression Tim had gotten when his older brother hadn't returned to his room. It was easier to deny that he had any hurt feelings than to accept that he was disappointed Jason hadn't stayed. Jason seemed to grow sheepish, and then mumbled, "I decided…that I'd stay for a while. At least until you're back on your feet."

Which, everyone knew, would be a long time. The drug had taken a great toll on Tim, and though Bruce had a cure for the paralysis it didn't help with the long term effects. Red Robin was off patrol for a while; Tim still couldn't even sit up yet let alone walk. So that fact that Jason was willing to stay in the Manor for that lengthy of a time almost startled Tim. Instead, it made him feel happy and a tiny sense of pride that he was able to keep his brother home for the time being. "Didn't know that you were so worried about me."

At that Jason made a scoffing sound, "Don't think it has to do with this. I need a new place to stay and I'm not sleeping on the streets when there is a perfectly good bed here."

Tim had to fight to keep himself from smiling; they'd been trying to tell Jason that for ages and he'd always preferred the streets to the Manor. "Whatever you say, Jason."

The older man rolled his eyes and helped him lay down. He straightened out his leather jacket, paused in hesitation, and then asked carefully, "So…nightmare I'm guessing. Want to talk about it?"

"No," Tim answered as soon as he finished his sentence. The thought of having to describe what he'd seen was enough to make him want to pull the blankets over his head and cry. But he wasn't about to shed tears around Jason; then he'd really look pathetic.

"Right," Jason answered, rubbing the back of his neck. An awkward silence fell over the two of them, neither knowing what to say. Tim looked to his hands, Jason glanced around the room; finally Jason said, "I'm not good at the whole 'comforting' thing."

Tim shrugged as much as he could, "You could go if it bothers you."

"I'm not bothered, idiot," Jason hissed, and then took a deep breath and composed himself. "I'm just no good at it. Dick is the one that handles this kind of stuff. I'm used to being the one that mopes around and denies help from everyone."

"Congrats," Tim said with half a grin, "you're improving."

"Yeah yeah," Jason answered, looking to the side. He was so embarrassed that Tim couldn't help but start laughing, even when his older brother shot him an angry look.

There was the sound of the door swinging open and then closing rather hard. A glaring Damian appeared in the doorway, his hair sticking up in all directions. "Would you fools silence yourselves?"

"Sorry for disturbing your slumber, Prince of Gotham," Jason replied sarcastically, ignoring the sharp look that Damian gave him.

The younger boy huffed, "I would not be awake if it wasn't for Drake's screaming."

His comment seemed to drain Tim of any lightheartedness that had formed. He slumped back against the pillows, his eyes downcast as the images of his nightmare played over once more in his mind. If he focused long enough he was positive that he could still feel the cold seeping into his bones. The thought forced him to hold back a shudder. Tim muttered softly, "Sorry…"

The scowl on Damian's face melted away, as if he realized what he had said. True, he didn't often think before he spoke, but it was strange to see that Damian hadn't meant to strike that nerve. Guilt flashed in the child's eyes, something that was not present much. Tim decided not to question it; watching as his brother's resolve hardened. His scowl was replaced by him standing tall and declaring, "It made me realize that we should…enjoy each other's company for the night."

Jason arched an eyebrow, "You want to stay in the same room as either of us for hours? Willingly?"

"You're one to talk, Todd," Damian shot back and then strode over to the bed and climbed onto it. Tim couldn't help but notice how small he looked as he sat there. The ten year old sat on the edge for a moment, and then moved over to sit next to Tim. "Funny how trauma unites even the most stubborn of our family."

"I am not traumatized," Tim insisted. He was touched that Damian actually was showing that he cared. Maybe he should have gotten hurt sooner.

The younger boy ignored him and settled back against the pillows with his arms crossed, shutting his eyes. "Do not ruin the moment, Drake. This will not happen again."

Beside the bed Jason smirked, and affectionately ruffled Tim's hair. "Go to sleep. We're right here, kid."

Tim awoke peacefully the next time, when dawn was barely breaking the sky. At first he wasn't aware of his surroundings, yet as he became more awake he noticed the weight on his chest. He almost jumped in surprise when he saw that Damian had chosen to use his chest as a pillow. The dangerous child was curled into his side, though he'd stolen a good portion of Tim's blankets for himself. Not that Tim cared; the room was warm enough for him.

At the bedside was Jason, his head resting on the bed as he slept, one arm draped on the mattress. It seemed to Tim that he had been trying to stay up but succumbed to exhaustion at some point. The teen looked between both of his brothers, a tired smile coming onto his face. They had actually stayed throughout the night for him. Not by their father's orders or by Dick's insistence, but by their own choice. It was the best feeling that he'd had in a long time.

Carefully Tim reached up and patted Damian's hair, and affectionate gesture that he did not dare to try while the boy was awake; he needed his hand. The boy's tired mumble caught him off guard, but he refrained from showing he was startled. Damian said, eyes still closed, "Don't say a word, Drake."

Tim smiled at him and said nothing.